


XO

by sidnihoudini



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>11 Christmas days, from 2002 to 2013.</p><p>“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Joe announces, letting his arms fall out to either side of him, head dropping back against the couch cushions. He eyes Pete and Patrick across the coffee table, Pete eating off of his plate with one chopstick and his mouth pressed directly to the edge, Patrick still sipping at his drink, most of his attention on wiping the stray noodles that Pete keeps dropping on his leg. Joe grins, and says, “The lost boys, reunited.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	XO

**Author's Note:**

> I had this saved as "chitmas.doc" while I hurriedly wrote it over a couple of days. I don't know why that's relevant, but I just thought you should know.

2002

Joe dangles his legs out over the quiet city street below him, and takes a drag of his cigarette.

The paper burns away quickly, nicotine making his lungs feel warm and full, like a waiter has wandered by and sprinkled salt and pepper on his insides. Combined with the sharp outside air, it’s downright invigorating, he thinks, exhaling into the quiet, dark sky.

He can hear Pete and Patrick in the living room behind him, arguing over lyrics. Nothing new there, even though tonight both of them are pointing chopsticks at one another, swearing and dropping bits of sticky rice onto the floor as they gesture back and forth and grab pages of lyrics from one another’s hands.

“It’s Christmas, guys,” Joe announces, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the empty, wet street beneath his perch in the window. “What happened to peace on earth?”

Pete lets out a frustrated noise and Patrick immediately snaps a “sorry” that Joe knows he doesn’t mean.

“We’re gonna get ants,” Joe says, scratching the back of his neck as he eyes the nest of spilled food and crumpled pieces of paper that surround the coffee table Pete and Patrick are kneeling around. “Or mice.”

Ugh, he feels like his mother. Or even worse, his _aunt_. She’s got the same jewy hair he does, too.

“We already have mice,” Patrick grumbles, pushing himself back up onto the couch. He hasn’t showered in a couple of days – neither has Pete, actually, they were both truly disgusting when left to their own devices. 

Joe caught them sharing dirty clothes one time, too. It was just one of those things you found out about a person that always popped into the back of your mind whenever you saw them again after it.

“Ants, Patrick, ants,” Joe repeats, still messing with his hair as he sits down opposite Patrick, and beside Pete, knelt on the floor and now more interested in the lemon chicken than arguing with Patrick. “Can I get an honest opinion on something?”

Patrick doesn’t look up from his paper, but gives a grunt. Pete, chicken in mouth, looks at Joe curiously.

“Is my hair getting jewier?” He asks, honestly, fluffing his hair out at the front.

That cracks Patrick, and he looks over with a snort before rolling his eyes, and reaching across to take the last veggie roll. Pete laughs, dumb and loud, HA HA HA, and nods, reaching for Joe’s head.

“It totally is!” He cracks up, puffing up the thickest part of Joe’s hair. At least it hasn’t started to go frizzy quite yet. The new shape makes Pete laugh even harder, extending his free hand in Patrick’s direction, waving and moving side to side as he tries to get his attention, laughing, “Patrick! Patrick look!”

Patrick looks, smile turning into a wide grin as he shakes his head and reaches for his can of coke.

“Why do you let him do this shit to you, Joe?” Patrick asks, still chuckling a little before he shakes his head, and takes a sip, still watching Pete fool around with Joe’s hair.

Joe bats his eyes and tilts his head in Pete’s direction, “Little does he know, I _like_ it.”

“Oh my god,” Pete laughs, looking alarmed, letting go of Joe’s hair to grab his dinner plate and bounce around the coffee table, letting himself drop onto the couch cushion beside Patrick. They’re both so little they can basically share one seat between them. “Joe, you’re so weird. You’re pretty much the weirdest person I know.”

Patrick gives Pete a strange look from about six inches away, before turning back to Joe, now grinning widely and spreading out across the entire couch, one foot kicked up onto the coffee table, heel nestled between a takeout container and another unopened can of coke.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Joe announces, letting his arms fall out to either side of him, head dropping back against the couch cushions. He eyes Pete and Patrick across the coffee table, Pete eating off of his plate with one chopstick and his mouth pressed directly to the edge, Patrick still sipping at his drink, most of his attention on wiping the stray noodles that Pete keeps dropping on his leg. Joe grins, and says, “The lost boys, reunited.”

Pete makes a face and swallows, “We were never divided.”

“Well you can definitely argue like a bitterly divorced couple,” Joe says, eyes drifting down to the coffee table as he considers going in for a third round. The only reason he had retreated in the first place was to have a peaceful smoke in the window – he hadn’t necessarily been full.

Swallowing his mouthful of food, Pete holds his chopsticks up and says, “I love Patrick so much that sometimes it cycles all the way back around to disdain,” He pauses, glancing over at Patrick, who’s trying to hide behind his Coke and ignore what Pete is saying altogether, and then says, “Right babe?”

“Mine just cycles right to hate,” Patrick says to Joe, fully ignoring Pete as he tilts his head all the way back, swallowing the last mouthful of soda in there. 

That cracks Joe up, as he folds his arms over his chest and cackles, stopping halfway through to cough instead, one foot still kicked up onto the coffee table and dangerously close to edging a metal container of chow mein onto the floor.

“That’s the man I’m going to marry,” Pete smirks, giving Patrick big, wide eyes when he gets a scoff in return.

Joe sighs and re-folds his arms, looking at the situation in front of him fondly before he shakes his head and says, sounding bewildered, “I don’t doubt it, man.”

~

2003

“I will, mom,” Patrick is nodding, wandering out of the motel bathroom with his cellphone on one ear, and a finger poked in the other. “I know. I promise next year I’ll be home. Okay, Merry Christmas. I will, love you, too.”

The subsonic volume that Pete is already watching the crummy, static screened TV at increases another three bars, until Andy looks up from his magazine with a pissed off expression on his face.

“Come on, man,” He says, shaking his magazine. Tattoo Parlor. “I’m trying to read.”

Patrick stops in front of the TV, watching as Rudolph hurries across the screen, furry little feet leaving blue idents on the glittery, snow covered ground.

“We already watched this in Idaho,” Patrick frowns, turning around to look at Pete, laying on one of the two twin beds, his feet reaching for opposite directions of the mattress, hands splayed on his stomach. He raises his eyebrows at Patrick and smiles. “Andy’s right, man, turn it down. Jesus, Pete.”

There’s a noise from behind the front door, like the sound of someone trying to open it, and instead walking into it knee first as it gets stuck in the jam. All three of them manage to actually hear it over the sound of the blaring TV, and glance across the room as the door is shoved from the other side and then finally pops open, revealing Joe.

“Christmas dinner is here,” Joe announces, kicking the door closed behind him. “Shitty fucking door.”

Andy gives up on his magazine, letting it flap closed as he drops it onto the mattress next to him and pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking at the two grocery bags in Joe’s hands.

“You didn’t break into the band’s road fund for that, did you?” He asks, raising one eyebrow. On Andy, it isn’t acerbic or bitchy – on any of the other three, it would be. That was Andy’s special power, his band talent.

Making a ‘pfft’ sound, Joe kicks out one of the chairs from where it’s tucked in underneath the crappy, red vinyl dinette table.

“What am I, a noob?” He asks nobody in particular, setting the two bags down. He grimaces and then turns around, narrowing his eyes at Pete, still laid out on the bed. “Jesus fucking Christ man what are you, my opa? Turn that shit down a few decibels. I brought turkey.”

Patrick looks into one of the bags curiously, and asks, “Like, real turkey?”

“Like… yes,” Joe gives him a weird look and then makes a face before reaching into the bag, pulling out a second deli box for Andy. “And a bunch of veggies and crap, I don’t know.”

The room goes quiet as Pete mutes the television, the sudden change in volume leaving all of them with slightly ringing ears. Patrick sits down at one side of the table, trying to unpack the various types of holiday-ish food that Joe brought, his ears perking at the sounds of the mattress squeaking as Andy and Pete climb out of the respective beds.

“Oh man,” Andy sounds happy as he sits down opposite Patrick. “You remembered cranberry? That’s my favorite, man.”

Joe grins and sits down beside Andy, “You know I did.”

“Cranberry?” Pete asks, sitting down beside Patrick. “That’s like… the ketchup of the holidays.”

Both Andy and Joe level Pete with a look across the table that could melt stone and burn bridges.

“Yes,” Joe says, sounding patient, like he is talking to his opa. “That’s exactly why it’s so delicious.”

Patrick opens the plastic container of deli roasted turkey, elbows angled up and away from the table so he doesn’t accidentally knock anything over.

“Pete’s got one of those weird families who don’t eat things like cranberry or hollandaise,” Patrick explains, glancing across the table at Joe and Andy’s still judgey expressions. “I had a dry Thanksgiving there last year. I think it’s why none of them ever sweat.”

That rustles Pete’s feathers, as he sits up straighter and turns to look at Patrick, saying, “Hey! My mom made that dinner special for you. Normally we just go out for Chinese food.”

“You guys are _so weird_ ,” Joe repeats, as Patrick makes a ‘see, I told you’ face across the table. He spears a couple of pieces of turkey with a fork, and drops them on his own paper plate before doing the same for Pete.

Pete picks up a slice of turkey without a fork and watches as Joe spoons half of the cranberry sauce onto his own plate, leaving his roast potatoes and green veggies to fend off the sudden lava disaster.

“I pretty much just like to taste my food,” Pete says finally, eyeing Patrick for confirmation before he bites into his turkey, eyebrows raising in surprise at how good it is. Mouth full, he says, “This is really good.”

Glancing up from his secondary pour – now gravy – Joe scoffs and says, “I know my mid-west delis, bitch.”

~

2004

“You need to stop watching this shit,” Patrick tells him, startling the remote control out of Pete’s hand as he comes into the bedroom, unannounced.

Pete has been watching footage of the tsunami for approximately sixteen hours straight, now. He can’t stop flipping between all of the twenty four hour news channels, just waiting for new bits of information to come in – whether they’re inevitably true or not, Pete wants to know all of the details.

“It’s the news, Patrick,” Pete says lamely, picking the remote back up, out of his blankets.

It’s their first real holiday at home in almost three years, and Pete has been stoned on opiates the entire time. He barely remembers having dinner with his parents and siblings, he hadn’t even heard Patrick come in until he was already three paces into his bedroom.

“Give me the remote,” Patrick says, climbing onto his mattress, clearly not fucking around.

Pete resists at first, stretching back and trying to keep the remote out of reach as Patrick crawls over him, shoes already off in the front hallway downstairs but still wearing his damp rain jacket. Pete gets a face full of thin plastic fabric and Patrick’s jacket zipper, thick and heavy and cold.

He relents after a second and relaxes, letting Patrick take the remote from him. 

Patrick, face pink with exertion, drops into the spot in Pete’s bed beside him, and pointedly changes the channel, turning it to the only thing currently airing that isn’t about the tsunami – Rudolph.

“Your favorite,” Patrick says belatedly, reaching over to put the remote away on the bed stand.

Pete frowns and tilts his head, hair making noise against the pillow case as he turns to look at Patrick.

“Did my mom let you in?” He asks, eyes drifting to watch as Patrick finally takes his jacket off, pulling his arms out of either sleeve before he balls it up and drops it on the floor beside Pete’s bed. For his next trick, he undoes his belt, and shakes his hips out of his jeans, hat falling off in the process.

Once his jeans are on the floor, on top of his jacket and below his hat, Patrick shakes his head.

“Your sister,” He says, sounding a little out of breath from the struggle. “Your mom was in the kitchen, though. She gave me a piece of pie.”

Pete frowns at Patrick. “I think the holidays are making me depressed.”

“This tsunami shit’ll make you depressed, man,” Patrick says, sounding serious as he gets his legs under Pete’s blankets, and reaches across to pull him down by the shoulder. Pete is still frowning when Patrick presses a kiss to his mouth, face cold from being outside. At the stiff reception, Patrick frowns back at him, a mirror image. “Are you having panic attacks again or something?”

Shaking his head, Pete rests his chin on Patrick’s chest, and lets his eyes flicker across the close pattern of Patrick’s shirt, the crosshatch of fabric when it’s this near his eye.

“The doctor gave me pills,” He says, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly. Patrick touches Pete’s shoulder, the side of his neck, the top of his head. He still feels like Pete, physically. “Ativan is pretty much the equivalent of taking a sledgehammer to the head.”

Patrick runs his fingers through the hair at the crown of Pete’s head a couple of times.

“Don’t take that shit unless you need it. Please,” Patrick says, adding the ‘please’ as an afterthought, almost. He sounds quiet and soft and small, not like the usual brick wall that Pete met when he knew he was making the wrong decision.

Rolling further into his pillow, and away from Patrick, Pete shakes his head.

“Pete,” Patrick says, and ah, there’s the guy he knows, Pete thinks.

Opening one eye, Pete looks up at Patrick, illuminated by the beside lamp beside him. It makes him look cherubic and saint-like and all of the things that Pete had really come to appreciate in a boy.

“It helps me,” He lies, looking Patrick in the face.

Patrick leans in again and kisses half of his mouth and half the pillowcase, pulling back a fraction of an inch to stare Pete directly in the eye. He looks quiet and small but with the softness of a blisteringly bright diamond.

“Let me help you, instead,” He says, and Pete doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just kisses Patrick first, this time.

~

2005

“I’ll grab that,” Patrick offers, using both hands to pick the monumental bowl of turkey stuffing up off of the kitchen counter. The bowl looks delicate and expensive and not unlike the rest of Pete’s mom’s fancy dishware. “Is this it?”

Dale nods and picks up the last gravy boat, gesturing through the kitchen doorway into the dining room.

“We can send Hillary back in for the wine,” She smiles, leading the way through the kitchen as Patrick follows awkwardly, hoping he isn’t going to be that person who drops and loses an entire entrée and a very expensive piece of dishware.

Everyone else is already sitting at the massive dining room table – Pete’s dad, both of his siblings, their girlfriend and boyfriend, as well as various other members of the extended Wentz clan.

“You can park that right here, Patrick,” Pete’s uncle says to him, as soon as he spots the stuffing that Patrick is obviously carrying.

Laughing, Patrick shrugs and unceremoniously edges himself between Pete’s uncle and aunt to set the bowl down on the table runner, almost knocking over a candle in the process. The Wentz holiday dinner had gone from being practically fabled in its non-existence to being opulent and very Wentz-like.

Patrick guesses that’s what the holidays did to a person when you’d almost lost your son not even a year before. There were a lot of things to celebrate this year – the album had gone over much better than anyone had expected it to, both of them had a little bit of money now, and, most importantly, Pete had recovered.

“You want to get in on some of these mashed potatoes?” Pete asks, as Patrick comes to sit down on the chair next to him, where he has a little tinsel laden name card and everything. 

Without waiting for a response, Pete unceremoniously spoons a massive portion of stark white, steaming hot potatoes into the center of Patrick’s equally white dinner plate. He laughs at the weird slap sound it makes, and then does the same for himself.

“I love potatoes,” Pete’s other, crazier aunt is saying to Patrick, as she taps on his knee under the table and wipes her mouth way too close to the side of his face. Patrick grimaces a smile and nods, tucking himself to the side a little bit so he can incrementally angle himself away from her. Extended families are so weird.

On his other side, Pete continues to navigate most of the food items being passed around the table, which Patrick takes full advantage of, mostly so he doesn’t have to all but stand up and yell over the thrum of everyone else just to figure out where the veggies got to.

“This looks so good, Dale,” Someone says to Pete’s mom, as the whole table hums in agreement.

Patrick holds his wine glass up when a bottle is broken out – red or white, Patrick doesn’t particularly care at this point, especially as Pete’s old aunt continues to rope him into more and more strange conversations, and he does nothing except repeatedly feel compelled to respond.

“Hey,” Pete says, when they’re about halfway through their meal, and the majority of the table has broken up into smaller, segregated conversations, mostly taking place in groups around the table. 

Looking over from his food, and almost expecting a question, Patrick raises his eyebrows and asks, “Hm?”

“I am so fucking happy right now,” Pete says, voice so clear with certainty that Patrick swears he feels a wire tighten and snap in his chest, all but releasing the tension he had held in his back, his shoulders, for the better part of the year.

Without realizing it – without even meaning to – Patrick breaks into a grin before he reaches up and pulls Pete towards him by the back of the head, both of them smiling stupidly, decisively, so drunk with the feeling bouncing between them that Patrick can do no more than just press his face to Pete’s warm cheek.

“You have no, no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” Patrick says, surprised with himself when it almost sounds like he’s going to cry, emergency cranberry supply in front of him or not.

Pete laughs – his classic laugh, the one Patrick would know anywhere – and Patrick feels that explosion in his chest again, the one that hadn’t been familiar in a long time, but still feels like fireworks.

~

2006

“I don’t think those are gonna fit,” Patrick says, unceremoniously cutting himself off when the child size felt reindeer antlers fall forward, and drop down over Hemmingway’s eyes. He’s immediately over it, snuffling hard and backing up, stepping on Pete’s Sidekick which is discarded beside them on the floor.

Pete reaches for the antlers and tries to right them on Hemmingway’s head.

“They fit,” He lies, struggling to keep them on the dog’s head, the cheap, plastic headband component of the costume threatening to pop up and off of the monstrous crown of Hemmingway’s skull once more. Pete reiterates, “Sit, sit. Sit.”

Hemmingway is probably the most ‘tude filled dog Patrick has ever met, his mother’s white ball of fluff notwithstanding. One time Patrick had tapped Hemmingway on the back leg just to see what would happen, and the dog had turned back and looked at him with a face full of scandal, droopy eyes black rimmed and seemingly arched at him.

Stretching his legs out across the floor, Patrick bends at the waist and reaches for the twelve pack of beer they had brought with their half assed dinner from Trader Joe’s.

“This is the weirdest Christmas ever,” Patrick announces, using the sleeve of his hoodie to twist the cap off of his beer. His gaze trails over Pete’s head, through the massive, floor to ceiling windows that look out over Los Angeles, twinkling and foggy purple below them. “We really need to get furniture.”

Pete pushes himself up onto his knees and stretches across the floor to snag one of their grocery bags by the handle, trying to push Hemmingway away by the elbow as he wanders up, snuffling along Pete’s forearm to where his fingers are twisted in the plastic.

“It’s strangely romantic,” Pete says after a minute, glancing over at Patrick.

Snorting, Patrick dares to set his beer down on the floor, where there’s a high chance Hemmingway will walk into it and knock it over, and replies, “Totally romantic. My ass is gonna get nice and sore from sitting on the ground before we inevitably try to have sex on that crappy air mattress.”

“It’s not crappy!” Pete replies, scandalized. He finally pulls a cheese string out of the grocery bag, and reaches for Patrick’s beer – cheese and beer may be the one combination that results in Patrick actually throwing up, brand new floor or not. “It’s like we’re camping. In a really expensive, climate controlled state park.”

Patrick hands his beer over and reaches to get himself a second one. Pete cracks his cheese string open, and bites into it, completely disregarding the “string” portion of its name until he tries to pinch off a piece for the dog, and instead ends up pulling it in two down the middle.

“Damnit,” He says, biting that portion of the cheese string in half before he drops the other piece to the ground. When he looks over at Patrick, Patrick is nursing his beer and staring back at him. “What?”

Shaking his head, Patrick laughs a little under his breath, and leans forward, saying, “Nothing. Just having one of those weird out of body experiences.”

“Alternate universe where you and I are still working crappy jobs in Wilmette, right?” Pete asks, raising his eyebrows. That wasn’t actually what Patrick was thinking about, but now it’s got him curious none the less. “I’d work at a gas station and visit you at the grocery store on my lunch breaks.”

Laughing, Patrick raises his eyebrows and kicks at Pete’s thigh. “You think about alternate universes a lot?”

“All the time,” Pete grins, stretching. “Lucky for me, in every one you and I are still together.”

That makes Patrick smile – genuine, if not a little charmed. 

“I was just thinking how weird this year has been,” Patrick says, as the moment passes. He gestures to the windows with his beer, raises his eyebrows. “Three years ago we were in some crappy motel in the mid-west, and now… you know, all of this.”

Pete nods, scratching the bridge of his nose as he replies, “Next year, we get a tree.”

“Whatever,” Patrick scoffs, looking down into the neck of his beer bottle. He shrugs his shoulders and glances back over to Pete, who is now looking at him curiously. “No, like – not in a bad way. Just, who knows where we’ll be next year? Probably not here.”

Grinning, Pete sets his beer down and lays back, stretching across the bare floor. Patrick watches his face as it disappears, behind the line of his hips, stomach, chest.

“If we’re in Paris,” Pete says, looking up at the ceiling, “I’m going to propose to you at the Eiffel Tower.”

That makes Patrick laugh, rolling his eyes as sets his beer down too, rolls off of his ass, and onto his hands and knees. Pete is a short trip away, and Patrick climbs over one bare foot first, his leg over both of Pete’s ankles, then his knees at Pete’s hips, digging uncomfortably into the wood floor.

“Just to set expectations,” Patrick says, feeling his hoodie bunch up around the shoulders and under his armpits as he navigates Pete’s frame, lying still and warm underneath him. “If that happened, I would probably turn you down.”

Pete grins wide, eyes disappearing into slits as he regards Patrick’s new proximity, and says, “Cold as ice.”

“Just kidding,” Patrick replies, sitting down on Pete’s thighs, trying to shift his weight so he doesn’t crush hips or dick into the ground below them. He leans in, face soft, like he’s going to kiss Pete or say something cute or any number of things that could be appropriate in this situation. Instead, he touches their noses together, and says, “I would just feign innocence, and pretend you never asked me anything at all.”

Laughing, Pete wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and pulls their bodies together, Pete’s frame coming up off of the floor a half of an inch before Patrick’s elbows can’t hold their combined weight and they both crash to the floor, Patrick now fully on top of him.

“Double ouch,” Pete laughs, his hands on Patrick’s back, feet kicking Hemmingway’s curious face away from his bare toes. “My little Patrick, my future divorcee.”

Relaxed, face soft, Patrick rests his cheek against the hollow of Pete’s throat, and, eyes wandering back to the windows, smiles and says, voice almost inaudible, “You know it.”

~

2007

This whole thing is very, very quickly getting out of control.

Joe is drunk. Andy is not. Patrick is definitely on his way to getting there – he’s actually been drinking since mid-afternoon, when he had started on the bar fridge in his hotel room watching Christmas specials alone. Pete is…. 

Cringing at the taste of the way too strong rum and coke he had the bartender make him, Patrick swallows his mouthful of booze and looks across the room, to where Pete is in a crowded booth, Ashlee in his lap.

“Hey buddy,” Andy says, resting his hand on Patrick’s shoulder as he steps up to the bar. Patrick drains another third of his drink in one go, and raises his eyebrows at Andy in greeting. “How’s it going?”

Patrick sets his drink down on the bar top, and scratches the spot between the corner of his eye and the bridge of his nose.

“Best Christmas ever,” He says, meaning for it to sound like a joke, but it really just sounds sad instead.

As an afterthought, he smiles with the corner of his mouth, trying to train his lips up into something that may resemble a smirk. Andy, of course, sees right through it.

“You’ll get through it,” Andy shrugs, resting his elbow on the bar top. He rubs a hand over his mouth, glasses sitting a little crooked on his face, and arches his eyebrows in Pete’s general direction. They can both hear his laughing from here, the sound of his voice calling Ashlee “Ash” and “baby” and “oh my god.”

Patrick shrugs and pokes his straw around in his glass, catching eyes with the bartender to get another refill. This is not only the worst Christmas of all time, but the most depressing after tour party, as well.

“I assume so,” He shrugs after a second, ignoring the deep pain that cuts through his stomach – the manifestation of months of anxiety and sadness scratching away at the soft flesh of his organs.

Andy snags a water bottle from where there are a few lined up along the bar top, most likely waiting there for too drunk people and designated drivers. Andy is technically neither.

“Are you going back to Chicago?” He asks Patrick, cracking the plastic lid off of his water bottle.

Shrugging, Patrick draws a line in the condensation his glass leaves behind on the bar top.

“Guess so. Probably until the New Year, then it’s back to LA,” He shrugs, wiping at one eye with the palm of his hand. “Pack up my stuff and find somewhere new to live, I guess.”

Andy grimaces and takes a swig of water, “That’s fucked up.”

“Tell me about it,” Patrick snorts, accepting the new drink the bartender hands him. He shrugs and angles the little straw out of the way so he can take a long sip, then gestures towards Pete’s table, where most of their group had congregated, and asks, “Shall we?”

Nodding, Andy screws the lid back onto his water bottle and follows after Patrick dutifully, watching the way his shoulders slope as he makes his way through the crowd with his drink, adjusting the angle of the hat on his head before they reach their destination.

“Patrick!” Gabe yells, throwing one arm out from where he’s sitting at the very edge of the booth, half of his body and most of his limbs still in the aisle as Vicky sits beside him, grimacing at what Patrick assumes are his sharp elbows. “Merry Christmas!”

Patrick smiles and nods, coming to stand awkwardly at the edge of the table.

“You too man, do you even celebrate Christmas?” He asks, making half of the table laugh, and the other half look towards Gabe for an answer. From her spot beside Gabe, Vicky rolls her eyes, which makes Patrick laugh – she did ‘wildly unimpressed’ like no one else – and mouths ‘no’ to everyone.

There’s one quiet beat before Ashlee is reaching across the table, her arm bare and leading to the bright green dress she’s wearing that is cut in the shape of a Christmas tree, ribbon and tinsel and all. Her hand touches the fabric of Patrick’s forearm as she smiles up at him, eyes bleary and drunk.

“Patrick,” She says, voice soft and feminine before she laughs, bringing one hand up to cover her mouth as one of Pete’s legs shifts underneath her, and she has to hold the table. She settles after a second, unlike the feeling in Patrick’s stomach, and looks back up at him, leaning against Pete’s chest. “Pete told me seriously the funniest story about you two.”

Acid burning at the back of his throat, Patrick sips at his drink to choke the taste and associated feeling down, and raises his eyebrows as he manages to reply, “Oh yeah?”

“Oh my god, you have to tell everyone, actually,” She says, tapping Pete’s wrist with one hand as she widens her eyes at Patrick. “Tell everyone about your Christmas last year!”

Patrick’s stomach flops out from behind his skin and hits the floor in front of him, in front of everyone, exploding in a blast of undigested alcohol and bar nuts. His heart tries to make a run for safety but just gets stuck in his throat instead, making him feel like he’s choking, dying.

“Uh,” He says out loud, feeling sick, ashamed. Embarrassed. He can barely meet Pete’s eyes over the slight curve of Ashlee’s bare shoulder as he sits behind her, quiet, dark, his hair brushed over his forehead and in his eyes, mouth red and damp from kissing and drinking. He looks ashamed of himself in that moment and Patrick thinks that he damned well should be.

The moment passes between the two of them, sizzling through the air as they both think about where they had been one year ago, alone together and wrapped up in one another on the bare floor of Pete’s new house, which he had inevitably filled with expensive objects and weird looking people since. 

It had been Patrick’s home for a while at first, too, but it wasn’t like that anymore.

“We just didn’t have any furniture,” Pete says after a second of radio silence, Patrick too flustered to even think of how he might answer a question like that. 

All he remembers is the sound of their mostly full beer bottles clinking against the hardwood floor as they accidentally knocked them over, the noise quiet and sharp and distinct, repeating over and over in his brain until it just doesn’t make sense anymore.

Patrick affixes a smile on his face – it’s forced, and Joe, Vicky and Andy are all looking at him sadly, like they know, a dimness in their eyes as they realize and take long, quiet sips of their drinks.

“It was probably funnier at the time,” Patrick manages to say, finally looking away from Pete’s face.

Ashlee looks confused, glancing back at Pete and then to everyone surrounding them at the table.

Not knowing what else to do, Patrick lets out a short laugh so he doesn’t break down in tears instead, and leans forward, setting his half empty drink down on the table with a quiet clink.

“I think I’m just gonna head back to my room, now,” He says, affording them all a quick, quiet glance before he tucks his face down, hiding underneath the brim of his hat. “Merry Christmas.”

He doesn’t look at Pete at all.

~

2008

The album is a bust and for the first time in his life, Patrick feels like giving up.

He spends Christmas night drinking by himself in his apartment, a million miles from home and an entire universe away from Pete, who is across town in his home with his wife and newborn son. 

Patrick kicks his foot through a framed and gold plated Infinity on High record, sobs into both hands in the middle of his kitchen floor, and considers booking a plane ticket back to Chicago so he can at least have a mental breakdown in the physical presence of his mother.

For his closing act of the night, he drinks a half a bottle of red wine – the only other alcohol he has in his house after the whiskey is gone – and passes out on the living room couch, defeated and alone.

~

2009

“Hey!” Patrick greets, as the front door swings open and there’s Joe, stoned and apparently very much in the festive spirit, with a pair of green and red socks on his feet and a weird, blinking plastic reindeer medallion hung around his neck.

Grinning, Joe opens the door a little wider, and extends one arm out, pulling Patrick into a hug.

“Hey buddy,” He replies, clapping Patrick on the back a couple of times before they separate, Patrick’s lame hostess gift squished between them – he had picked up a holiday classics collection on DVD from Target on his way over. “Good to see you.”

Patrick smiles and steps inside, patting Joe on the arm as he passes, replying, “You too, man.”

“Patrick!” Marie exclaims, coming around the corner with both of her hands in the air and a genuinely happy expression on her face. She takes in Patrick’s newly refined frame. “You look great!” 

Blushing despite himself, Patrick toes his shoes off and ducks his head a little, setting his abandoned hostess gift on top of them as he replies, “Thanks Marie, you do too.”

“Oh blah blah blah,” Joe interrupts, flapping his hand around. “Come on, we got all kinds of good shit cooking on the stove. Have you ever had stuffed yams?”

Following after the two of them – the newest editions to Mr. and Mrs. Domesticated, USA – Patrick shakes his head and nervously scratches at the back of his neck. He’s been trying this no hat thing for a couple of weeks now, and it’s all been very hit or miss.

“I don’t think so?” He answers, screwing up his face and pulling at the very little amount of scruff he has so far been able to grow on his chin. It wasn’t a man beard, but it was coming along slowly but surely, something that Patrick was grateful for, at least. “Are they… popular or whatever?”

Joe leads him over to the oven and pops it open, saying, “They’re faaaaaab-ulous!”

“Jeeze,” Patrick laughs, sitting on a bar stool as he watches Joe use one hand to waft the smell of the baking yams towards his nose. It looks vaguely homicidal, he thinks, as Marie comes to stand at Joe’s elbow with an equally weirded out expression on her face.

After a second, she shakes her head and smiles at Patrick, asking, “Wine?”

“Yeah!” He answers, clapping his hands together. “Please.”

Joe slides the yam tray back into the oven and laughs, looking up at Marie, “And he’s not picky.”

“Basically not, no,” Patrick laughs, leaning his elbows on the counter, and then taking them off again, unsure of whether he was supposed to use the basic manners his mother had taught him or not. He hadn’t seen Joe all year, since the tour had ended in Spring. This was so weird. This was like running into an old co-worker at the department store, except more nerve-wracking. He clears his throat. “So, what have you guys been up to?”

Shrugging, Joe gets three massive wine glasses down from the cupboard, and makes an undecided noise, his face jerking in a startled way when he sets one of the glasses down on the counter too hard and it makes a scary, almost broken noise.

“Not much, man,” He says, accepting the opened wine bottle from Marie. “Just fuckin’ around, trying to get the house done. Have you seen my moss wall?”

Laughing, Patrick nods and out of habit looks over his shoulder at the doorway they had just come through, the one that led to Joe’s mystical front hallway moss wall.

“Stupid fucking moss wall,” Marie rolls her eyes, watching as Joe empties a third of the wine bottle into each glass. She smiles tightly at him, and snags the first glass, bringing it up to her mouth and taking a long swig.

Joe rolls his eyes and tells Patrick, “She says this shit in front of my mother.”

“Oh whatever,” She scoffs, top lip stained a faint red shade from the wine.

Cracking up again, Patrick shakes his head and looks between the two of them. He has no idea how Joe managed it, but he had actually found his female counterpart. The whole concept of a secondary Joe ish type person is totally staggering to Patrick, but here she was, standing in front of him.

“You both seem really happy,” Patrick says diplomatically, accepting the glass Joe hands him.

He and Joe take a few quiet sips before Joe makes an ‘mmm’ noise, looks appreciatively at the wine in his glass, and then glances over at Patrick, “So how about you, man? What have you been up to?”

“Same as you,” He says, stomach flip-flopping out of habit as he thinks about the last year. He starts messing with the hair on the back of his head with the hand not holding his wine glass. “I just got all the hardwood floor replaced in my apartment. I’m thinking about getting a dog.”

Marie makes an excited face, raising her eyebrows at Patrick over the rim of her glass.

“Miss Chicago?” Joe asks, arching his eyebrows, too, Marie’s mirror.

Shrugging, Patrick glances down into his wine glass, and then back up at Joe, “Always, man.”

“Good,” He nods his head, fro bobbing in the bright overhead kitchen lighting. Marie leans against the counter with one hip and reaches for the wine bottle, twisting it around in its place on the counter to read the label. There’s a stilted, charged moment before Joe asks, “Have you heard from Pete?”

Patrick shakes his head and swallows his mouthful of wine. “Not since the tour ended.”

“Are you surprised?” Joe asks, sounding curious.

Laughing even though there is no humor in his voice, Patrick raises his eyebrows and replies, voice hoarse and honest, “No. Not at all.”

~

2010

In retrospect, Patrick has no actual idea what his mother wanted him to pick up.

He stands in front of a wall full of different types of gravy packets, each one seemingly different both in taste and feature. When his mother told him to run to the grocery store and “get another two packets of gravy,” he hadn’t expected it to be such an emotional journey.

“Chicken,” He whispers to himself, reaching for a packet. Maybe this is the one his mom usually got?

No, couldn’t be. He puts that one back.

“Turkey,” He says next, under his breath. This box looks the most empty, like the majority of mid-Christmas Day shoppers have been in the same position that he is now. Shit, that’s good enough reasoning for him. He grabs three packets of the turkey gravy granules, and throws them into his little plastic hand basket.

Wandering down the aisle, one hand trying to smooth down the hair on the back of his head, he lets his eyes wander over the items – he was a kid in a punk rock band who grew up to be an adult who generally bought his meals prepackaged, this universe of cooking ingredients is totally new to him.

There’s a pyramid of cranberry sauce cans set up at the end of the aisle, a few picked off from the sides, but still generally maintaining its architectural structure. Patrick slows down to a stop and regards the pyramid with a smile on his face, memories of motel rooms and Pete’s parents place flashing through his mind. The whole thing actually feels like about ten lifetimes ago.

Patrick clears his throat and shakes his head, willing the memories away. That shit didn’t do anybody anything good, especially with the way things had turned out.

It just wasn’t worth the heartache.

He continues down the main grocery store aisle, mostly heading towards the check-out area, even though the majority of his concentration slides from end cap to end cap, and then to talking himself out of buying three pound bags of holiday M&Ms and chocolate mints.

Honestly, he doesn’t realize he’s run into Dale and Bronx until it’s too late.

“Honey, no, put that away,” Dale is saying, one arm stretched out in Bronx’s direction.

Alert flares explode in Patrick’s brain. His fingers begin to tingle around the basket handle, he feels his heart rate speed up and his eyes widen, pulse click-click-clicking until he feels it in ear drums. Oh fuck, oh God.

“I want that!” Bronx is exclaiming, just as Dale catches Patrick’s eye, and stammers, “Patrick!”

To say that it’s sensory overload for Patrick would be an understatement. 

He hasn’t seen Dale since Pete originally bought the house in LA, when she had come out with Hillary for a weekend and they had done all kinds of familial things, like cook breakfast together and go shopping at The Grove. Patrick had bought a hat that day, one he actually still had tucked away in his closet.

And Bronx. He hasn’t seen him since he was a baby, at least – certainly not since he’s been mobile, and verbal enough to demand things like chocolate bars and bags of mints, not a lot unlike Patrick himself.

“Dale, hi,” Patrick says, after all of these thoughts flash around his mind in about a second flat. They both regard one another as though the other is a ghost. Patrick clears his throat, and says, “Have you, um, been having a nice Christmas so far?”

Nodding, Dale’s eyes flicker from Patrick’s face, down to Bronx, and back up again. 

Bronx has come to stand at her leg, looking up at Patrick carefully. He looks so much like Pete that Patrick feels his stomach cramp up a little bit. He hasn’t seen Pete in… a very long time, and here was the Miniature World version of himself, right in front of Patrick’s nose.

“It’s been nice, we have – ” She stumbles over her words, “The whole family together for once.”

Smile stretched tight, Patrick nods and shifts his grocery basket from one hand to the other.

“Same, my mom is ecstatic,” Patrick says, nodding again, for lack of anything better to do. It feels strange to not hug Dale, as she had been a motherly figure to him for years. “My uh, my sister is back from Delaware, which is nice. We haven’t been in the same city for um, way too long!”

Dale nods and smiles, the edges of her eyes crinkling up in a way that reminds Patrick of Pete. She holds Bronx’s tiny little hand at her hip, and says, “Good, I’m glad to hear you are all doing well. I was thinking about your mom the other day, strangely enough.”

“Oh yeah?” Patrick replies, reaching up to scratch at his ear lobe.

Nodding again, Dale bends down and picks Bronx up, holding him to her hip.

“Have you been doing well?” She asks, careful around what exact words she chooses.

The question catches Patrick off guard, but it doesn’t necessarily surprise him. 

He wonders what Dale knows, if Pete had told her how he had fucked everything up. Patrick tries not to think about that whole period of his life anymore – not Pete, necessarily, just how damaged he had let himself become, an entire coast away from his roots – but seeing Dale’s warm face brings it all flooding back.

“I’m doing really good, thanks,” Patrick answers, trying to stay diplomatic. He has been – doing well – but he certainly doesn’t want to seem like he’s trying to overcompensate. “I’m putting together an album of solo work right now, so that’s been my main focus lately. I adopted a dog recently too, I guess? So I’ve been trying to train her. She’s kind of a handful, though.”

Oh boy, he’s rambling, now. Somebody stop him.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dale smiles, sounding like she means it. Patrick mirrors her smile because he’s mostly just trying to remember what he just said to her – did he go into too much detail, maybe it was too little? Is she picking him apart like he is doing to himself? “Pete hasn’t been doing so well.”

Fuck, there it is. At the mention of Pete’s name, Bronx perks up, echoing, “Dada.”

“I’m…” Patrick trails off. He doesn’t know how to end that. Sorry? Not surprised?

Dale frowns a little, her mouth a straight line as she seems to consider and then reconsider her next words, finally settling on a soft, “He worries me.”

“He wouldn’t be Pete if he wasn’t worrying somebody, somewhere,” Patrick smiles, his stomach blooming in warmth at the memory of his best friend. The endlessly fucked up, self-destructive love of his life.

That makes her laugh, pained but honest, as she nods and says, “Our boy, huh?”

“Is he?...” Patrick trails off, unable to stop himself from asking, even though he doesn’t ask the whole question, the one that ends with ‘back on the pills.’ Because this is none of his business, he hadn’t seen nor talked to Pete in two years, so the status of his current mental well-being could not be any further from the list of things that Patrick was entitled to know.

But that didn’t make him any less curious.

“No, no, thankfully,” Dale shakes her head and bounces Bronx from side to side. He immediately crumples against her upper body and lays the side of his head against her shoulder, sleepy eyes watching the odd other shopper pass them by. “He’s drinking a lot, though. He doesn’t sleep. Ashlee isn’t here with him.”

The sudden influx of information makes him dizzy. He wonders if Joe knows any of this – so far, he’s really been the only one to keep in contact with Pete, even though it was via email and usually Joe couldn’t decipher any of Pete’s lengthy messages anyway.

“That…” Patrick trails off, licking his lips. He shakes his head, unsure of what else to do. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

Dale nods, looking unsure of whether she should say anything else. Patrick hopes she doesn’t.

“I know that you two aren’t in one another’s lives anymore,” She says, leaving it as vague as she possibly can, which Patrick is eternally grateful for. “But if you ever get a chance to give him a call, I know that he would appreciate it. His number is still the same.”

Patrick doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he manages a smile instead.

~

2011

Patrick had disregarded the conversation with Dale until early February, when he had been watching E! hungover and alone. 

That had been the day that he’d found out about Pete’s divorce.

It had taken him another month to work up the courage to actually call Pete, and exactly one short conversation to realize how fucked up Pete was. He’d been strung out, talking about how his house was bugged, how people were in the bushes outside.

The whole thing had terrified Patrick enough that he’d left the studio and gone over, expecting the absolute worst, to maybe find Pete sitting on the living room sofa with a tinfoil hat on his head.

Thankfully that hadn’t been the case, but the empty pill bottles had scared him even more.

Tonight, Patrick looks at his friend – a different person than he knew all of those years ago, when it had only been the two of them in their own little universe that mostly revolved around writing lyrics and arguing with one another.

“Do you want any more, Pete?” Patrick’s mom asks, holding up the dish of green beans that had been the last to arrive from the kitchen. “Plenty here.”

Patrick tears his dinner bun in half and glances at Pete, caught mid-swallow and reaching for his drink.

“No thank you, this is awesome, actually,” He says, smiling at her and simultaneously trying to set his glass back down on the dinner table. “The potatoes are delicious.”

His mom returns the smile and nods, turning to his dad instead, where she proceeds to empty the remainder of the green beans onto his plate without asking.

“Thanks for coming over for dinner,” Patrick says, mostly to his dinner plate. He feels 16 again.

Pete grins and looks over at him, fork full of turkey halfway to his mouth, “Thanks for not totally writing me off for being a dick.”

“Actually, I did kind of write you off,” Patrick corrects, one eyebrow raising as he smiles and looks over at Pete again, his pulse thrumming. 

The whole back and forth dance they have been doing for the last few months – since Pete had really gotten back on his feet – has been equal parts exhausting, and electrifying. There were parts of Pete that looked unfamiliar, again, like the new, muscled curve of his back, the way his eyes were bright and wide, no longer dark and anchored down.

“Well, then, thanks for letting me back in,” Pete says, his voice soft.

~

2012

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Joe laughs, walking through Patrick’s front door.

Andy is already sitting on his living room couch with the TV remote in one hand and Patrick’s dog asleep in his lap, the majority of his attention focused on flipping between HBO, TLC, and a Friends marathon on a local news channel.

“Nice scarf,” He greets, nodding at Joe’s bright red and white scarf, long and looped around his neck.

The sudden disturbance has Penny awake and up on the back of the sofa, barking the second Marie walks in behind Joe with their dog Louis in one arm.

“Do you see this?” Joe asks, disregarding Penny, Joe and Patrick, and gesturing to Pete, instead, who has been laying on the floor below the TV the entire time, reading something on Patrick’s iPad. “This is like the equivalent of the reunification of Germany or some shit.”

Marie comes to stand beside him, lipstick red enough to match Joe’s scarf. She says, “Oh my god Joe.”

“I saw you like two weeks ago,” Pete says, eyebrows arching, the majority of his attention still focused on the iPad. Andy turns the volume down on the TV a few levels, smiling and waving at Marie when they catch one another’s attention.

Hopping around the coffee table, Marie sits down next to Andy with Louis in her lap, and reaches to pull at the fabric on the front of Andy’s t-shirt. She says, “Love this!”

“Thanks!” Andy smiles and smoothes the front of his t-shirt down.

On the floor, Pete finally cracks under Joe’s unwavering maniacal grin and arched eyebrows. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and makes a face at Joe.

“Now that you two are fucking again does it mean the band is getting back together?” Joe asks, kicking at Pete’s socked feet with his sneakers. “Does this mean Patrick gets to be a real boy again?”

Marie breaks away from her conversation with Andy to unbuckle Louis’ tiny, French Bulldog sized harness, and says, “Hey babe, maybe he can teach you how next.”

“Shots fired,” Pete laughs, cackling at the expression on Joe’s face before his attention turns to Patrick, who, with either a case of bad or perfect timing, comes back through the kitchen door. “Hey Patrick, Marie wants you to teach Joe how to give blowjobs or something.”

Laughing, Marie sits forward on the couch a few inches, one hand coming out as though it will brace her from the incorrectness of Pete’s summary. Louis hops down off of her lap at the sudden movement and heads straight for Pete, snuffling around his shoulders.

“Hey buddy,” Pete says, extending a hand to pat him on the head.

Marie shakes her head at Patrick and says, “Way out of context.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Patrick replies, but he’s laughing a little bit, as he comes over to give Marie a half sitting down half standing up hug. “Did you guys find the place okay?”

Now settling himself into the armchair to Andy’s left, Joe toes his sneakers off, and kicks both feet up on the coffee table, long legs stretched over the gap between the two pieces of furniture, Louis now underneath them.

“You live right off the freeway man, easy as pie,” Joe shrugs, now unwinding his scarf. When it’s in one big knitted ball in one hand, he throws it at Marie’s face and says, “Hey, did we forget the pie?”

Marie catches the scarf with her face, and then re-balls it with her hands. She throws it back at Joe, who is grinning, and catches it with his mouth. She replies, “ _We_ reminded you to get the pie off of the backseat. Did we forget?”

“We did,” Joe nods solemnly, dropping his scarf to the floor. Louis immediately wanders over to it and begins to try and dig himself a nest – Joe doesn’t seem to mind either way. “Maybe we don’t need pie tonight.”

Andy flips back to TLC and says, “Hey, I like pie! And I remembered your stupid deli turkey.”

“If they’re Germany, we get to be France,” Joe says, already getting back up out of his chair to go down and retrieve the pie. “Cause I could seriously tongue kiss you right now.”

Making a face, Andy says, “Ew,” and changes it back to HBO.

“Why are we Germany again?” Patrick asks, sitting down next to Pete on the floor.

Pete, who has otherwise gone back to the iPad, shrugs and raises his eyebrows, saying, “I don’t know, something to do with lots of reunion sex or something.”

“What the fuck Joe,” Patrick frowns, even though he doesn’t deny it. He holds his hand out for Louis, who he hopes to trick into his embrace by letting him think he’s holding food.

Joe is already mostly back out front the door, but he still manages to shout, “Reunion sex!” and pump a fist in the air.

“We watched Breakfast Club while we were wrapping presents,” Marie explains.

Grinning, Patrick starts to climb back up from the floor as he asks, “So. Who wants wine?”

~

2013

Patrick rolls over in the hotel bed – familiar in its unfamiliarity, the white sheets wrapped around the mattress a stark difference in shade to Pete’s skin, more matching of his own.

“We should order room service before they close,” He says, his breathing still a little heavier than it normally was, heartbeat tripping, all of him a bit haywire.

Pulling the bed sheet up, Pete frowns over his shoulder at Patrick, and says, “Babe they’re always open, they’re like 7-11 and drunk people restaurants.”

“It’s Christmas, man, can we just not be dicks and order at a normal time?” He asks, exasperated, which makes Pete laugh right away, warm grin on his face as he snakes an arm around Patrick’s middle, pulling their bodies closer together. “Hey.”

Pete rests his temple against the bony part of Patrick’s collarbone.

“Hey yourself,” He says, closing his eyes. He inhales, his body relaxing. “We’ll order in like one second. I promise.”

One hand ghosting down over Pete’s back, Patrick asks, “What are you doing?”

There’s a moment that passes between them – it’s not electric but it’s something deeper, maybe the opposite, the feeling of being grounded, secure. It’s warm and it seeps through Pete into Patrick, the feeling of being complete.

“I’m remembering every moment of my life that led up until right now, being in bed with you,” Pete says, voice quiet against Patrick’s skin.

A slow, syrupy grin drips its way across Patrick’s face as he watches the ceiling, hand moving up Pete’s back to crawl through his hair, fingers threading through, tugging. Everything could change, there was always that risk, but some things, they always stayed the same.

“Merry Christmas, Pete,” Patrick whispers, softly.


End file.
